In the Home of a Serial Killer

As weird as it may seem, I have a fascination with serial killers. Jack the Ripper, Ed Gein, Ted Bundy, The Hillside Strangler, Son of Sam, BTK. It’s what made me choose criminal justice as my major in college. To some, this makes me twisted, insensitive or a psychopath myself. I assure you I am none of those things. I guess instead of just being scared of the bogeyman, I wanted to know why there was a bogeyman. Murder is a horrible thing, but the majority of homicides are committed for specific reasons that while we may not agree with, we can at least understand: the murder in the heat of passion, the murder for financial gain, the murder to avenge a perceived wrong. It’s the murder for the sheer pleasure of it, the murder because “they” told me to do it, the murder to rid the world of those less worthy. These are the reasons behind serial murder. And these reasons are the ones I’m interested in.

I took a class called Serial Killers as a sophomore in college. It was the first semester it was offered and was taught by a professor who became my mentor as I continued my criminal justice degrees. This is the first time I learned anything specific about the serial killer known as BTK. BTK stands for Bind, Torture, Kill. This killer was responsible for the grisly murder of ten people in Wichita, Kansas, from 1974 to 1991. Since I was born and raised in Wichita, I had heard of BTK, but he hadn’t been heard of in so long that nobody really ever talked about him anymore by the time I was old enough to pay any attention. It was assumed he’d moved, died, been incarcerated or institutionalized.

BTK and his victims were the subject of numerous case studies throughout my college career. I saw crime scene photographs that I can still remember to this day; I learned about the victims, learned about the investigation from the man who was pivotal in cracking the case, Lt. Landwehr, and learned about the psychological profile of the killer who would not be arrested until 2005, fourteen years after his last murder. BTK was merely a case study to me. That is until February 26, 2005, when a phone call from my mother changed that.

It was a Saturday. I was working at Wendy's, where I was a co-manager (yes I had a bachelor's and a master's degree, but was still working in food service). A customer who came through the drive-thru told the register operator that "the police arrested BTK!" See, BTK had begun corresponding with the police again in 2004 after 27 years of silence. He left his "trophies" for people to find, wrote letters to KAKE studios, a local TV station, etc. Wow! BTK had been arrested! The police did not release who the man was. A short time later, my mom called to talk to me. She said, "you'll never guess who they arrested as BTK." "Who?!" "Well, they didn't release his name, but said he's the compliance officer for Park City." "Oh my god! Dennis Rader?" "Yes." Dennis Rader. The compliance officer for the town I grew up in. Dennis Rader. My brother's Boy Scout leader when he was a kid. Dennis Rader. My previous best friend's father. I couldn't believe it. All those years of studying BTK's case and I knew him all along. It's hard to describe the feeling I had when the realization hit. The crime scene photographs filled my head. Visions of my brother and I playing in his backyard with his children. I went to Girl Scout Camp with his daughter for years. We spent summers together at each other's houses, going to the swimming pool, playing in their tree house. We were inseparable at camp. I had lost touch with her once we hit high school and stopped going to camp. We went to different schools. But once I learned who her father was, I immediately felt great pain for her. How could the father she knew be the same person who brutally murdered ten people?

Although it was illogical, he'd been arrested afterall, I became anxious at times about him. He became my bogeyman. I remember barricading my bedroom door one night when I was home alone. I also starting keeping a knife in my nightstand. I would imagine him waiting in my closet for me to fall asleep. To this day, I still dream about him sometimes. And I still imagine what it must be like for his family. To know that they lived with the bogeyman, a monster, and never had a clue. That is what fascinates me about serial killers. You can know one and not even know it. I knew him. I spent time with him. And I've seen what he did to ten innocent people.

I still shudder when I see his picture.